He just wanted to cross the street and get some breakfast tacos while his car was in the shop.

She just wanted to get home and sleep after a long night shift.

But somehow, ten minutes after they bump into one another on the sidewalk, they’re in her bed together going at it like weasels.

They both think it’s crazy. They both assume it can’t last. But somehow, weeks later, then months, they’re still obsessively, anonymously, voraciously wrapped up in each other.

There are rules. No names. No personal details. Just blazing hot sex as often as they can manage it.

So what happens when, despite their every effort and intent, it starts to mean something?

He waits on her doorstep repeatedly stopping himself from biting his lip, from tapping his foot, and most of all from reaching up to knock again. If she’s here and awake, she obviously would have heard the first knock, and if she’s not awake, or if she’s in the shower, he’ll just make an idiot of himself banging on the door. Rude … clueless … desperate … take your pick of what kind of idiot.

He’s got too much shit with him – went crazy at the donut shop. A dozen donuts. A carton of coffee. A drink caddy with a latte and a cappuccino and a bottle of milk and a couple handfuls of sugar packets and three different artificial sweeteners. He had to put some of it down to free up a hand to knock.

She’s not here, he thinks. Or she’s here, but shit, she all but told you she’d be out till two or three. Eight was too early. Why didn’t I say –

The door opens. She’s wrapped in a towel, hair back in a ponytail holder but with tons of stray strands jutting out.

She can tell from his expression that she looks like hell. He blinks at least three times without saying anything. He’s got a bag from a donut place in one hand, coffee on the ground by his foot. Holy god don’t let me scare him off looking like this. Her head hurts. She can feel the red in her eyes. But something in her chest starts burning at the sight of him.

“Jesus, I want to fuck the shit out of you,” she breathes, totally forgetting her plan to say she was about to take a shower.

He grins. Whew. That’s better.

Author Bio: Somewhere between Mexico and Canada, not too far from the centerline of the U.S., Ian Saul Whitcomb spends his days writing, blogging, and occasionally tweeting, while struggling to fend off his mid-life crisis (under the theory that if he can postpone it till the age of sixty, the definition of “mid” means he’ll live to be a hundred and twenty). He also works for a large corporation, but tries not to think about that any more than he has to.